So his comfort, his dear consoling comfort, had returned to him
completely. And with it had returned all his affection, his tenderness for
Brandon. Poor man, deserted by his wife, past his work, showing as he so
obviously did in the Jubilee week that his brain (never very agile) was
now quite inert, poor man, poor, poor man! Ronder, as he walked his study,
simply longed to do something for Brandon--to give him something, make him
a generous present, to go to London and persuade his poor weak wife to
return to him, anything, anything to make him happy again.
Too sad to see the poor man's pale face, restless eyes, to watch his
hurried, uneasy walk, as though he were suspicious of every man.
Everywhere now Ronder sang Brandon's praises--what fine work he had done
in the past, how much the Church owed him; where would Polchester have
been in the past without him?
"I assure you," Ronder said to Mrs. Preston, meeting her in the High
Street, "the Archdeacon's work may be over, but when I think of what the
Church owes him----"
To which Mrs. Preston had said: "Ah, Canon, how you search for the Beauty
in human life! You are a lesson to all of us.
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